


Harry Potter and the Rise of Bálor

by PaigeTheHarmonyLover



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Evil Dumbledore, F/M, Fantasy, Mythology References, Romance, Soul Bond, Supernatural Elements, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeTheHarmonyLover/pseuds/PaigeTheHarmonyLover
Summary: For millennia, The Line of Bálor: King of the Demons and Reaper of Death, has been quashed and suppressed, watered down by a Shadowed Order until only a trace of its true power is left within the bloodline of Potter. But now, the Demon King has now awoken. The time of destruction is now, and Harry Potter has been chosen as his vessel.





	1. Opening

_Can we fight our true nature?_  
Become something we are not?  
Can we use our light?  
To conceal our darkness?  
To bury the demon below?

_**Finn Balor** _

On a quiet, open little street in Surry, the residences of Privet Drive were all taking advantage of the good weather. With lawns freshly trimmed, cars bright and sparkling in their drives, with the world seemingly trotting along at its more than reasonable pace; however, one resident of this prim and conservative street was far from welcome or accepted.

Known as the grubby offshoot of the more than likeable Dursley family, Harry James Potter was more of a blight on the street than anyone really understood. Yes, his hair was never neat and tidy, through no fault of his own, his clothing was always baggy and worn in a chaotic scruff, owing to his overly large trousers and peeling trainers. Again, unbeknownst to the residents, who naturally assumed that the boy enjoyed adorning garments several sizes above his lean and athletic frame, this was because the only raiment that was bestowed upon him were old hand-me-downs and discarded tat from his overly weighted cousin. These things, however, were but trifles to the one trait of character that was in his power to control, the one which also garnered him this appalling treatment from his blood relations. The trait that Harry James Potter, scruffy, youthful and ostracised, was a wizard.

Harry pounded the streets of Little Whinging, posture burdened and his stride lacks. In his hand, he carried a long, thin stick, something that the residents may assume to be the sapling of a much larger branch. In truth, the item Harry carried was a source of power beyond anything these simple Muggle's could ever comprehend.

A wand.

Harry had tossed caution to the wind, following the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, the famous school of Witchcraft and Wizardry which at one point had served as the only place he could truly call home. Harry's upper lip curled into a furious snarl as he contemplated what he was going to do; he looked down at his hands, could almost feel the power rising from The Earth as fury spread throughout his body. Why? Why had she not squealed? Why had she not broken as so many of her own victims had?

' _Righteous anger won't hurt me for long … I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson_.'

The words of that murderer: Bellatrix Lestrange resounded deep from within the fathoms of his mind. It had been her that had caused this pain deep within his heart, when that evil bitch had sent Sirius, Harry's Godfather, his only true family, her own cousin, through the Veil of Death.

Harry felt the tears return to his eyes, felt his entire body tremble with a cold, dark, hatred. At this moment, Harry didn't care about being a wizard, didn't care that his true enemy had returned to flesh, blood, and bone with a means of enslaving the world. At this moment, all Harry cared about was seeing that bitch of a woman lying dead at his feet.

It came to him in a subtle whisper, a dark, ominous voice, at the edge of hearing, almost like the words found in a dream. It breathed into his ear, alien, portentous, and powerful.

' _Rebmuls a sa hdaeried ra nekow nomed na ta. Leiús liacso nomed na ta_."

Harry felt a slow, creeping chill enter his spine. His rage festered, pushed into the deepest recesses of his soul, while his eyes, for the most fleeting of moments, sifted with darkness. Inside, Harry felt something snap, though his mind, his body and his soul remained. This was not a breaking of a man, it was a breaking of chains, a destruction of wills placed upon him ever since Voldemort had first tried to strike him down as little more than a child.

The surge was silent, exhibited no pulse, no shock, no force. But across the country, three people felt this rending, this gathering of intense power: Albus Dumbledore, Tom Marvolo Riddle, and Hermione Granger.

Hermione sat up from her position on her bed, the book she had been nosing through tumbling from her hands and onto the floor. Her heart began to pound, felt her breathing heighten. She had never felt anything like this before. Herself a studied and attune witch, Hermione was never far from the either, the stream of energy that bestowed upon witches and wizards the power of the arcane.

This shift was one of building devastation, an insurgence of power so great that it could only come from one source: The awakening, the opening of the Eye of Bálor. Erupting to her feet Hermione hastened to her bookshelf and scanned the spines, reciting their titles as she searched.

"Arcane spells of the Norse Gods… Pagan Magic in the Muggle World… Ahh Yes!"

Hermione pulled the leather and gold bound book from its place of rest: The Rise of Bálor. Immediately the dark-haired witch set the book down on her desk, throwing open its pages and began to speed through.

"Bálor, King of the demons and slumbering god… yadda, yadda, yadda …" Hermione flicked through page after page. She found the page she was looking for, taking in the ancient depictions of Balor, the demon who ruled all. He who slept in silence, his single eye of destruction closed until the time of renewal. Only then, when he had chosen his vessel, when the world was to be remade, only then did the Demon king open his eye and reap his will upon the world.

"Why me…?" Hermione breathed, wondering why she had been the one to feel the opening of the eye. She felt no different, knew she was not the one Bálor had chosen to bestow his power upon. But then… Hermione closed the book tight with a _snap_ , her concern making her reckless, even if there was more to read. Reaching for her inkwell and parchment Hermione readied herself to inform Professor Dumbledore on what she had felt. He had to know, he would understand why this was happening.

A hollow, cautious roil curdled in his core, ink dripping from her quill and onto the parchment in a soft dripping resonance. No… for some reason Hermione didn't want to reach out to Dumbledore, her heart knotting in protest as it fought to override her head.

Instead, Hermione cleansed the parchment of ink, recharged her quill, and began to scribe a letter to Harry.


	2. Shadow Council

The ambience around the cemetery of Godric's Hollow was thick with misery and swathed in shadows. The late afternoon sky seemed suddenly filled with thunderheads, lightning streaming between these gathering masses like the warring munitions of the Gods.

The man who stood at one of the graves wore robes as black as the raven's wing, his blood red eyes concealed behind a powerful cloaking charm as he gazed upon the symbol which adorned the graves of James and Lily Potter.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, believed to be the greatest threat to mankind ever to walk the earth, offered the deceased couple's graves a salute, kissing his first finger with pursed lips before pressing said knuckle to his cold, porcelain brow.

"So you've felt it too…" a strong, ancient voice that which made Riddle's upper lip twist in a snare, resounded from the shadows behind him. Riddle had felt his presence the moment he had appeared at the edge of the cemetery; the one-man Tom Riddle feared almost as much as the reborn destructor, the one-man who had controlled his destiny ever since he had first discovered him at the orphanage as a youth.

"Yes… It appears you were correct; the Demon King has awoken." Riddle's voice almost… almost seemed to quiver as the speaker stepped out from the shadows. Ancient, cunning and powerful, Albus Dumbledore gazed upon the man so many believed to be his enemy. If the wizarding world were to see this assembly, decades of blindness would be removed from the eyes of the masses.

"You had just one task, Tom," Dumbledore hissed, his voice sounding nothing like the kind, caring gentleman he used in matters of public relations. "All you had to do was kill the boy, why must you fail so frequently?"

Tom Riddle hissed at the chastisement, lifted his pale head, turning away from his place of observance and faced the ancient wizard. Casting aside the concealment charm Tom Riddle exposed his true visage, eyes of crimson fury, serpentine face and lipless mouth bearing a snarl of contempt.

"You see me… don't you, Dumbledore? The boy has mutilated me, I am nothing more than a mask of horror, my power a mere wreck of its former self. If you wanted the boy dead, Dumbledore, then why haven't you killed him?" Riddle snapped, his rage palpable as he exposed his ugly, maimed face a by-product of the Demon King's retaliation. Even then, at only a mere baby, Harry Potter had possessed enough power to defeat even one as powerful as him. Dumbledore chuckled darkly, his partner's anger merely a trifle in the grand scheme of things.

"You know full well the reason for that, Tom. I must play my role in this pretence, same as you must. Your concubine did well in killing the boys Godfather, Sirius was beginning to see beyond our veil of deceit. It is that tragic loss, I believe, that has seen the Demon King open his eye and awaken within Harry. However, the boy is not our priority. He is easily controlled and manipulated, he knows nothing of the power that flows through his veins. It is the consort we must find."

"The consort? But… I thought."

"You thought wrong, once more, Tom," Dumbledore snapped, shooting down Riddle's recollection with a second rebuke. "Ginny Weasley is little more than a fangirl, a whelp of an entire generation of hero worshipers. No, the consort is one far more powerful, and it is her you must find. If we can destroy the consort the Demon Kings power with rend, you know full well that when James Potter died Lily's power shattered. We must do the same once more."

"Who do you think she is?" Tom enquired, a list of possible consorts playing over in his mind.

Dumbledore smiled, a dark, vicious grin.

"It will be either Miss Lovegood or Miss Granger."

"A second Mudblood?" Tom stated, the soul of Bálor and his Queen, Cethlenn, had passed through the generations, but when Lily Potter was suggested to be the vessel of Cethlenn, the Order had, at first, rejected this. Mudblood's were but blights, a mutation in the pure stream of magic, it seemed even Dumbledore did not believe the blood of Cethlenn would pass through into a second Muggle-Born witch.

"Lifemates are difficult to gauge, but like you, I do not enjoy the prospect of a lesser blood standing at the side of the reborn Demon King. Miss Granger is both wise and dangerous, her power of arcane control is some of the most impressive I have ever witnessed. Also, Harry cares for her, deeply, she could be used against him, should we not be able to control him, or should he have some notion of rebellion. I will consider this further as time permits."

Dumbledore curled a tuft of his long, silver beard around his finger, thinking, contemplating. He deep blue eyes sparkled with cunning, as they always did when the ancient wizard had concluded his thought.

"I shall deal with Potter and miss Granger, in the meantime have some of those minion's you control target miss Lovegood. See to it that it is enough for us to know if she is the consort."

"What of the Weasley's?" Riddle questioned of his partner, speaking of the family of Purebloods who had garnered so much love from the young Demon King. Dumbledore gave a gesture of dismissal.

"They are little more than peasants. Let the boy have a family for a while, it only gives us other loved ones to keep him chained to us. Now, we both have things to deal with, Tom. Make sure you do as you are told. Until we meet again."

Dumbledore and Riddle acknowledged the parting, the pair gripping their wrists in a gesture of respect. Turning away with a sweep of his robes and a strong, refined, footfall Albus Dumbledore trekked away from his partner, Riddle's eyes burning into his back before a swathe of shadow consumed him. There was a sound, a flash of lightning, and then both the old man and the pale wizard disappeared into the ether.


	3. Letters of Love and Warning

Harry returned home to Number Four Privet Drive with the sudden resonance of a storm ringing in his ears. Placing his key in the door, an act not so much of trust but of necessity if the Dursley's wanted him out of the way, Harry entered the abode and crossed the hallway towards the kitchen.

As he entered aunt Petunia lifted her head from gazing into the oven, the smell of freshly roasted lamb a heavenly indulgence, though as her gaze met her nephews they lacked the glare of solid dislike that for so many years had been his greeting. She seemed different, more humble, seeming to sense the subtle change in her nephew, his straighter posture, his strong frame, his eyes which seemed not so beaten down, but instead appeared to sparkle with power.

Drawing an uneasy gesture between them, Harry crossing the flawless kitchen towards the sink, pouring himself a glass of water, his tongue suddenly parched.

"Harry…?" Aunt Petunia spoke, her words ignored as easily as a ball thrown at a rhino's hide. Harry downed his drink with pace, washed out the glass with hot water and placed it rim down on the draining board, his grip now firm against the countertop and his posture arching with annoyance.

"What…?" the young man snapped, his gaze now reflected in the kitchen window as he saw his aunt’s reflection, herself standing cautiously some paces behind him. Her hands were folded before her chest, her fear, her concern both annoying and invigorating to him. All he had ever wanted was for Aunt Petunia or her lout of a husband to care for him. Instead, they had made his life a misery with both psychological and verbal abuse. In that time Harry had contemplated running away, finding some way to live forever in the magical world, his true home, his true place of happiness. However, every year he would return, back to this house, back to the favouritism and back to work, in the hopes that… someday, somehow, he might win the love and respect of his only true surviving relatives.

Aunt Petunia lowered her gaze, suppressing a hiccup as he slowly turned, frame leaning back confidently against the body of the sink and looked his aunt up and down. She was nervous, that was clear and Harry softened his aggressive stance. Petunia Dursley stepped back, taking a seat at the chat table and gestured for Harry to take the opposite seat. The young man frowned, was this some kind of joke? Some build up to his ever-heightening level of chores?

"Please…" Petunia pleaded, gesturing once more to the opposite seat. "This is important."

Intrigue suddenly flared within Harry. Cautiously, distrustful eyes glaring at his aunt, Harry took the seat and steepled his fingers. A gesture that reminded Aunt Petunia so much of certain male wizard.

"What is it?" Harry questioned, snapping Aunt Petunia out of her recollections. Petunia Dursley straightened her blouse, fidgeted openly with unease before reaching into the pocket of her pinny and pulling out what looked to be a parchment letter, accompanied by a gorgeous red and gold Phoenix tail feather.

Harry started at the sight of the obviously magically delivered letter. He offered his hand, gesturing for Aunt Petunia to give him the note. However, instead of placing said item into his waiting hand Petunia Dursley merely slid the letter across the table towards him, gesturing to the tail feather as it immitted a series of golden glitters as it scraped across the surface.

Understanding, Harry opened the letter, itself sealed with Dumbledore's personal crest: A phoenix reborn from the ashes. Shaking open the note within, Harry began to read.

_Dear Harry,_   
_I understand that you are not in the best of moods with me. However, I quite understand your anger and I repeat that I am sorry for Sirius's death. However, it is not to offer counsel for your sorrow that I am writing, instead, I send you this message to warn you. Members of the Order, some unknown even to me, have been subjugated to the Imperious curse. Be wary and watchful of those you love, even those such as Mr Weasley or Miss Granger. I am in no way of informing you who is friend and who is foe. If anything, unusual happens I implore you to inform me as quickly as possible. I hope to see you back at Hogwarts very soon._

_Yours Sincerely_   
_Albus Dumbledore._

Harry felt trickles of sweat seeping down the back of his neck… Members of… The Imperious curse? Harry glanced up, scanning his aunt for signs of control. Petunia Dursley wavered under that gaze and Harry sincerely doubted that his aunt, despite this unusual behaviour, would have handed over this letter if she were Imperioused. Harry expressed his thanks to his aunt, pushing back his chair and retired to his room.

To his surprise, Hedwig, his beautiful snowy owl, rested on the post of his bed, something what looked like a note attached to her leg. The owl hooted in greeting, holding out her leg and nipping affectionately at her master's fingers as he brushed her feathers.

Carefully, Harry untied the parchment letter from his companion’s leg, unravelling his second magical letter this evening, just as a roar of thunder resounded from the heavens. Harry crossed over to the windowsill, took a seat in the bay and opened the parchment scroll. His heart seemed to flutter in his chest as he recognised Hermione fair and pretty script. Cautiously he studied the letter, sighting no unease, no resistance, just soft, flowing text. He read on.

_Dearest Harry_  
 _I'm sorry to write to you at such short notice_  
However _something has happened I really feel needs your attention._  
 _Around_ 17:30pm _I felt something strange, something powerful shift in the ether_  
 _(The magical tide which bestows power to our kind)._  
 _It was something incredible, something dangerous_  
 _Something I fear could involve you._  
 _If you did not feel anything then please ignore this letter._  
 _If you did, then we must talk._  
 _I am going to be in the Leaky Cauldron at 07:15am tomorrow. I will wait an hour for you._  
 _Please, I stress this, do not come if nothing has happened._  
 _I really need to understand what is going on._  
 _I hope to see you on the Hogwarts Express when we go back to school._  
 _I do hope you have felt nothing and that this is just a false alarm. However, I fear the worst._

_Sent to you with the deepest love_   
_Hermione_

Harry stared at the writing, looking down at his wrist watch and checking the time. He frowned. 17:30 would have been around the time of that weird, uneasy shift. When… he tried to think back, his mind suddenly blank and void of thought of any time that had come before. He swallowed. He had felt something… something strange, something powerful shift within him. Hermione couldn't have known about that, nor could any Death Eater.

Harry felt his instincts flare. If this was some kind of Imperious trick there it would just be a matter of playing on his friendship to have him meet with the woman who was also his closest and best friend. They would not need to go through this elaborate, fancy ruse. His fingertips caressed the last statement of the letter: Sent to you with the deepest love. His heart flittered and danced beneath his breast. What…? What was this?

His thoughts returned to Dumbledore's letter. No… he would keep this private, he would meet Hermione tomorrow, but that didn't mean he would be without caution.

Rain pitter-pattered against his window, Harry looked out as the street lights of Private Drive began to glow, wondering what Hermione had felt, and how each of them were involved.

Aunt Petunia called forth his name from downstairs, summoning him for dinner, and Harry found, all of a sudden, that he had no appetite at all.


	4. Unclouded Gaze

At 06:45AM Harry removed himself from his bed, his dreams a strange, emotionally provocative sifting of desires rather than his normal night terrors. It was a relief to wake up not streaming with sweat and heated with rage but rather with a richer, more licentious, more stimulating sense of self. However, those dreams were one he would be sure to keep private, even in those moments of conversation with Ron and Hermione… most definitely from Hermione.

None of the Dursley’s were awake at this hour, itself a warm and lazy Sunday. Quietly, so as to avoid an unnecessary confrontation Harry had a quick shower, cold and desire simmering before adorning jeans, shirt and dragonhide boots. He made himself a quick breakfast of cornflakes in the kitchen looking towards the digital clock on the radio, making sure to keep a constant eye on its ever-changing dial. He watched the minute’s change over. He longed to listen to the news or at least some music to ease the passage of time. He looked hard at the clock, he blinked.

The power dial shifted, a light drumming sifting through the speakers and into his ears.

Michael Jacksons distinctly voice issued, his words startlingly true and adding fuel to the fight of emotions Harry already felt within.

 

_Beat me, hate me_  
 _You can never break me_  
 _Will me, thrill me_  
 _You can never kill me_  
Do _me, Sue me_  
 _Everybody do me_  
 _Kick me, strike me_  
 _Don't you black or white me_

 

Harry shut off the radio to avoid any further noise. He pricked his ears, expecting the Dursley’s to roar down their displeasure, but the heavy sleepers, something that was required when in the same house as Vernon Dursley, did not seem to have been disturbed. The hour was getting closer. Pulling on Dudley’s old jacket, Harry ran his fingers through his hair. Why he was suddenly so self-conscious of his appearance when meeting Hermione was confusing, but he felt he had to make at least some type of effort.

Washing up his breakfast bowl, picking up his keys which resided by the door, Harry cast one last look back at the Dursley’s abode. For some reason this felt like a new chapter, a new era in his life, even if he had one more year here. He would leave this place not a beaten, broken little boy, but for reasons he hoped Hermione could explain, Harry suddenly felt stronger, more liberated, the feeling of broken chains returned and he smiled, gestured to the house that had been a place lacking love, and stepped out into the world a new man.

Harry stepped some paces away from Little Whinging, away from where the noise of magical transportation would be more noticeable. The air was still fresh and moist with morning dew and the sun was just peeking over the distant heights when Harry held out his wand at the side of the road.

A colossal _BANG_ resounded from the distance. There was a flash, a sweeping of wind and the Knight Bus pulled up just in front of him. Harry had suspected Stan Shunpike to be his conductor, the pimpled youth the one who had helped him during the year Sirius had escaped from Azkaban. Instead, a fine woman stood at the rear of the bus, hand resting on the rail and ticket reel already winding off Harry’s ticket.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard, my name is Amanda Snodgrass and all be…” The woman’s voice trailed off from her introduction to sight the lightning bolt scar upon Harry’s brow.

“Oh my goodness… you’re-”

“Harry Potter,” Harry snapped, annoyed at this woman’s lack of professionalism. He should have gotten used to his blemish taking centre stage in his life. But for some reason beyond his current level of knowledge, this fame felt false and ill-deserved. After all, it was because of this scar that had seen Sirius be murdered at the hands of that bitch Bellatrix.

The woman apologised repeatedly for her gawking, even going so far as to offer Harry free transport. However, Harry placed eleven sickles in her hand and stated that his destination was the Leaky Cauldron.

Amanda Snodgrass quickly rapped on the window where Ernie, the driver sat, the Knight Buses engine ticking over with many clatters and bangs.

“VIP to London, please Ernie,” Amanda stated, offering Harry a flirtatious smile. Harry shook his head and palmed his face. It took two stops for the Knight Bus to arrive outside the entrance to the magical pub. Amanda Snodgrass helped Harry off the bus, rattling forth a stream of admiration, her words causing Harry’s cheeks to glow a deep shade of scarlet. Harry finished the conversation with a smile, the Knight Bus boomed forth leaving Harry feeling all the more embarrassed.

Checking his watch Harry saw he was just on the hour, he wondered if Hermione was already here. Once more, for reasons Harry could only decree as manners, Harry straightened the lapel of his jacket, ran his fingers through his wealth of jet black hair and observed himself in one of the Leaky Cauldron’s grubby windows. Did he look good? Why did he care? After all, he was only here to meet Hermione… that thought made him check his hair once again, a flitter of butterflies entering his stomach.

Harry breathed deeply and stepped into the grotty, magical abode.

Harry entered the wizarding public house with a different, more powerful ambience. People who recognised him did not gape, they did not approach, nor did they whisper as he passed them. Instead many averted their eyes, gazes lowered back to their drinks as he crossed the saloon towards the bar. The only person stationed at the bar was a young woman, her hair a rich cascade of curls which drew Harry’s eyes immediately to her rounded, well-formed rear. She sat with an air of confidence, sipping what appeared to be a bottle of butterbeer. Harry didn’t know why, but the childish drink did not suit what he could see of the girl. She seemed more like the sort who would be sipping either a glass of full-bodied red or maybe even something more expensive. Desire coursed through him, his heart already streaming adrenaline and lust through his body as he approached.

The girl had a fine, buxom figure, fine curves filling out what appeared to be a still-developing woman. Harry swallowed, coming to stand beside the girl… and felt his heart erupt into his throat.

“Her… Hermione…?” Harry was stunned. His fine, beautiful, best friend, turned her head to look at him. Desire smouldered in his eyes. She was stunning, her pretty face now accentuated with light layers of makeup: eyeshadow and lip gloss, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. Her eyes, always so deep and wise, now gleamed and sparkled with pleasure. Her lips curled into a smile and she stepped from the stool to embrace Harry in one of her deep and endearing hugs.

“Oh, Harry… You felt it too!” Harry didn’t know what he felt, all he knew now was that his heart was beating like a jackhammer in his chest, and in this very moment, Harry knew he would never look at this girl… this woman the same ever again.

Dumbledore’s warning resounded suddenly from the depths of lust, passion and raw emotion that was bombarding the now hormone battered youth as he pulled Hermione tighter and whispered in her ear.

“What animal saved us from Professor Lupin?”

“What…? I don’t-” Hermione faltered, her passionate hug suddenly deflating. “Buckbeak… the Hippogriff.”

Harry sighed and pulled Hermione back to his chest.

“I knew it was you, Hermione…” Harry said, sounded suddenly relieved. “I just… I had to be sure.”

“Be sure of what?” Hermione breathed, she and Harry taking seats back at the bar, their hands subconsciously linked beside them. Harry reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out Dumbledore’s letter.

“You weren’t the only one who wrote to me.” Hermione frowned, hands releasing the other with a burst of longing as she took the letter and began to read.


End file.
